Babylon
by PaperFrames
Summary: Post ep. Burned. They never went for that early breakfast.


A/N: Blame Cheerio/Cheertennis/Sarah for this. She's blackmailing me into writing Rollaro from 2nd pov and I decided to practice on my EO first. But be gentle, this is my first time with second p.o.v. I tried. Lol. This is a bit of pwp, essentially. Yes I know, I owe chapters and stories. I'll get to them. Thanks for reading!

(FYI: Takes place post ep. Burned. They never went for breakfast.)

Disclaimer: I owe nothing.

Oh, and if you're on Twitter and want to check out my insanity, you can find me at _thepaperframes_.

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Babylon

It was inevitable that you'd end up like this, with him; it was always just a matter of when. Between his sometimes maybe ex-wife (the ink wasn't even dry on the divorce papers before you dragged your teeth across his throat) and your inability to give every part of yourself to someone else, you're kind of surprised that this didn't take longer, in all honesty.

Just hours ago you two were ready to rip each other to pieces. And just mere minutes prior you were sharing coffee and tea on his stoop. A change of pace compared to how you two have treated each other since you got back from Oregon. He's been absolute shit to you and let's face it, you haven't exactly been all sunshine and roses either. But you were jealous and he was pissed and locking horns has always been easier than sharing feelings. It's why you didn't tell him you were home all those weeks ago. You wanted to piss him off. Make him so angry with you that your own anger at finding the "stunner" as Kathy had donned her, in your place, was justified. No matter how much you know it wasn't; _you_ left _him_.

But that doesn't matter now.

Eight years of arguments, late nights in cramped cars, stale coffee, sterile station houses, and 2AM breakfasts all bleed together as his hands trace your curves, slipping between your legs.

And you can't help but think about how much you don't deserve him - this. About how you're going to ruin him (just like you've ruined everything else you've ever touched - that's touched you - before).

Yet somehow you can't bring yourself to repent for your current and future transgressions against one of God's most pure and beautiful creatures.

Feather light fingertips trace over your wetness and you wonder why something so sinful feels so heaven like. You're going to destroy him. Like you do everything. Because you're filth incarnate and he's just too damn good for you.

He's the son of a preacher man, a choir boy with a set of strong wings, and a bright gold halo perfectly perched on his head.

And you? Well, you're the daughter of demons; soft curves and wide eyes. Sin masquerading as Virtue. Jaded innocence and cynicism wrapped in sarcasm with no illusions left about the world.

There's been far too many Hail Mary's and unanswered prayers in your life to count. He still hangs on to the scripture and the prayers, the holy water and rosaries. You neither want nor desire divine forgiveness and salvation any more.

But lord have mercy on your soul because he fucks you like Michael waging war on Satan.

And you love it.

His supple lips pressed to the base of your throat, warm breath coating your skin in unadulterated hymns of lust and ache; promises of protection and healing.

Wholly and unrepentant, your body takes all he's willing to give and then more. And he stretches you; perfectly fitting, as if he was made for you, in the cradle of your hips.

He fucks into you, each of his hands holding open your legs. Purple and blue bruises marring your skin where his fingertips grip your thighs. Your own hands drag down his back, in crisscrossing patterns - proof of the chasms of pleasure he's opening inside you with each measured stroke.

When he picks up speed, driving into you hard and relentlessly, your hips buck upwards, lifting off of the bed, and you sink your teeth into his shoulder just to hold onto the scream ready to rip loose from your throat. Your teeth elicit a rough hiss from his lips and a pervasive sense of pleasure fills you at the pain you cause.

But your victory is short-lived. His body disappears and suddenly you feel clammy, cold, and dizzy without his body on yours. When you open your eyes, unaware that you'd closed them, you find his face between your legs. He's grinning, each of your thighs hooked over his shoulders and before you can even compute what's happening, his tongue is inside you and he's fucking you senseless with his mouth. He catches you so far off guard that you damn near roll out of bed trying to keep up with him. The heels of your feet press into his shoulder blades as his fingers dig into your flesh.

You didn't think he had it in him. Outside of his wife (grade A prude, you're sure of), you're almost one hundred percent certain that you're the only other woman he's been with (if you aren't, you don't want to know). And you'd rather not recount the amount of nameless faces that have been in your bed.

Not that you didn't enjoy sex nor are you embarrassed by just how much sex you've had; it's just that...well, you've always been adamant about keeping the physical and emotional separate.

Actually, you've been adamant about keeping all of your emotions locked away preferably in a vault buried beneath concrete. Have so ever since your professor/married boyfriend/mother's former colleague who just so happened to be twenty seven years your senior, walked out on you after a pathetic and desperate declaration of love.

But with him, with Elliot, its damn near impossible. And you just want to feel like you're enough. Like you're worthy. Not like the amount of men you've been somehow diminishes your worth in his eyes because to him the physical and emotional aren't mutually exclusive. You worry that he won't be able to understand why you've sacrificed your body so many times in the night, but can't fathom sharing your soul.

His oversized digits splay across your stomach, holding you place; your thighs tremble, involuntarily clenching together as he devours you whole. His mouth incessant as he caresses your sides, touch feather light, as his fingers ghost over your skin, seeking out your own that are twisted in the white linen beneath you. He interlocks his fingers with yours, clasping your hands together, and all but pinning them to the bed. Every bit of your body, from the top of your head to your pointed pink toes, is under his unforgiving control.

"El…" you call out, the first and only word you've managed to push past your lips since stumbling into his room, your legs around his waist; shirt half off, and had promptly fallen to the floor. His tongue dips into you at just the right angle, his teeth grazing against your clit, and you're coming against his tongue. A warmness spreads across your lower belly and white lights explode behind your eyelids as you shudder, convulsing.

You're not allotted any time to recover because he slithers up your body and makes himself at home in the cradle of your hips, entering you without issue. He doesn't move just yet, but just sits inside you, his mouth wet with your juices as he places chaste, hot kisses from your collarbone to your forehead before settling on your lips. You can taste yourself on his tongue as it timidly dips into your mouth and he just kisses you. Soft, slow, hot, and sweet; he kisses you.

Proverbial butterflies flap their wings in the pit of your stomach and you curse yourself, trying your hardest not to think of how fucking deep you're in. How no matter what you say to yourself, this is not just sex because you two already share a soul.

And especially not when he nuzzles his chin into the crook of your neck, his lips against your pulse point and whispers, "Promise you'll never leave me again."

It's a request that leaves you at a loss because he knows you, all of you. Even the pieces you rather he didn't. But he's not for you. He wasn't (nor meant) made for you. He's meant for the PTA and football Sundays. You're meant for walks of shame and empty wine bottles.

You stutter, words jumbled together as you search for a response. But elliot just shakes his head. He smiles at you, hooking your right thigh over his left hip and rocks into you, rotating between long languid strokes that bring your hips off of the bed and short jagged thrusts that leave you breathless.

When you finally let go again, he does too. Your name falling from his lips in the same rhythm that Lucifer fell from Grace.

You're going to ruin him.

And if you're lucky, he'll ruin you too.


End file.
